


Worte sind ohne Bedeutung

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: M/M, Panties, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom just wants a quiet night. Bill wants to spice things up. ...Somehow, they're both going to get their way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worte sind ohne Bedeutung

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to steinsgrrl and traumheist for germinating the ideas that culminated in this story, ma_chelle for helping me make it better and kishmet for soothing my jitters, lovehotel for the German translation assistance, and the talented ninaelisabeth for the lovely banner.

**Title:** Worte sind ohne Bedeutung  
 **Author:** Talya Firedancer  
 **Fandom:** Tokio Hotel RPS  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Pairing:** Tom/Bill  
 **Genre/warning:** Adult content, incest, panties  
 **Summary:** Tom just wants a quiet night. Bill wants to spice things up. ...Somehow, they're both going to get their way.

 **Author's note:** Heartfelt thanks to and for germinating the ideas that culminated in this story, for helping me make it better and for soothing my jitters, for the German translation assistance, and the talented for the lovely banner.

 

"You're boring," Bill announces, bouncing up off the couch in the tour bus media room with an insane crackle of energy in his step. "So boring, so fucking pedestrian, Tom. All you ever do is eat, play the guitar, and sleep."

"Yeah, I'm boring," Tom agrees, not even looking at his twin. “You know tour life, Bill. I never do a goddamned thing but play my guitar.” He lifts the remote for the television and dials the volume louder. He knows his brother wants attention, still jittery from the concert high, but Tom is exhausted and his arm hurts and much as they affect one another's moods, this time he simply can't be pulled into Bill's pace.

“Well, you don't!” Bill grumps. He remains standing over Tom a moment longer, looming with an air of expectation. “I'm so goddamn bored.”

Tom doesn't look. The best way to win is to avoid engaging eye contact to begin with.

“We could watch something I want to watch, too,” Bill says after a moment, folding his arms.

“You can watch something in your bunk--” Tom begins, before remembering they have new beds now, and the media room has the only screen with an attached DVD player. “Uh, on your laptop.”

“That's hardly fair!” Bill exclaims. After a pause, he adds, “Or fun. I'd rather curl up with someone...”

“The dogs will curl up with you with a wave of your hand,” Tom replies, wondering how mad Bill would be if he pointedly turned up the volume again.

“I can't make out with the dogs,” Bill says with a huff.

Now Tom looks up at his twin, smirking.

“Gross,” Bill whines. “Tom...”

“Bill, I got this movie nearly a year ago,” Tom returned, too worn out and achey to do anything but use the same tone back on Bill. “I still haven't watched it. You never want to watch it. So you know what? _I_ want to watch it, right now, and if you don't want to, you can sit here and do something else – I don't know, read, or pet one of the dogs, or paint your nails – but I am going to watch this, so help me.”

He transfers his attention back to the screen, and heaves a little sigh. He's missed about five minutes of dialogue and he's going to have to rewind. The plot is incomprehensible enough without missing things.

“I see,” Bill says in a quiet tone that betokens his resistance is nowhere near over. “I'll take myself _elsewhere_ , then.” He hovers a moment longer before turning on his heel to storm off down the bus.

There's a minute or two of furtive rustling that makes Tom lift up somewhat, craning his head to see if he can glimpse what Bill's gotten into, but it subsides and the movie that Tom's watching picks up after that bit of dialogue, which turns out to have presaged a chase scene. He settles back and reaches for his water bottle, because that and soft drinks are all that Bill allows on the tour bus this year, and pets the great dark doggy head that settled on his knee at some point after his sputtered-out argument with Bill.

Bill's head pops into the room from the narrow corridor. “I'm going to shower.”

“Okay,” Tom says, raising a distracted hand to wave him on.

“Alone,” Bill adds, in the pointed manner that would normally indicate to Tom that he is In Trouble, capitals for emphasis.

“Good thing,” Tom replies. “It's a one-man shower.” They'd tried to pile in once, still giddy over the fact of a tour bus all to themselves, and all Tom had to show for it had been bruised elbows and blue balls when Bill kicked him out to finish shampooing his hair.

Bill snorts and disappears around the corner. After a moment, the sound of shower spray pattering against the insulated wall starts up.

Cranking up the volume, Tom sighs again. Bill is generous with himself but doesn't often allow for 'me-time' as opposed to 'we-time.' Tom doesn't ever truly get an evening off from Bill, not really; doesn't even need one and would pine if he found himself abruptly lacking a Bill for the evening, but sometimes he wants to spend his time the way he wants, without consideration for the other half in his life. Normally Bill can entertain himself, too, but there are occasions when they clash over what to do and when.

As the movie grinds onward to a more and more ludicrous conclusion, Tom's eyes begin to drag and he finds himself sinking into the embrace of the couch. The dogs are boneless heaps, their pointer on the couch beside him, their sweet aging black lab sacked out on the floor, and Tom is lulled by the rhythm of surging tires over the unending loop of asphalt.

He dozes off, lifts his chin with a start, and realizes that the shower is off. There's a slice of light leaving a razor-bright line across the dark hallway, indicating Bill is still shuttered in the bathroom, shaving or moisturizing or doing one of the numerous grooming activities he deems necessary. He'll probably be in there a while, burning brilliant with leftover adrenaline.

Tom's ready to fold himself under his duvet, though, so he heaves himself up from the couch and pats the dog once, twice, before shutting the entertainment system off and trudging down the hall. There are a few pre-bedtime routines he has to observe if at all possible; normal things like tooth-brushing and sometimes makeup removal, if they've had a shoot or some other public appearance. He likes to swab his skin down and sometimes moisturize it, though he tries not to let Bill catch him doing it.

Tonight he slumps onto his bed with fuzzy teeth and dry skin because he's that tired, and doesn't have the energy to fight his brother for the bathroom.

He wakes in the throes of an erotic dream.

Bill is straddling his stomach, black hair wet but combed back from his forehead, his supple, bare chest glinting pale in the faint light that glimmers intermittently like strobes between chinks of curtain. As Tom's gaze travels down Bill's bare body, it comes to rest at his hips. The star peeks out from above a placket of red cloth. Bill's wearing low-slung red panties laced in front like a corset. His slender arousal juts from the front of the panties which are lacking one crucial attribute.

They're crotchless.

Tom bites his lip to stifle a moan as his hands go to Bill's hips. He's suddenly, unrelentingly hard, and his earlier fatigue burns away in the surge of lust that rockets through him, tightening his belly and making his groin the sudden focal point of his desire. Bill is wearing nothing but a pair of crotchless hip-hugger panties, laced together in front with an eyelet corset-type of closure. Tom fingers down along the hairless strip of skin where Bill's semi-erect hardness surges forth. Bold, sure, Tom strokes below the straining proof of Bill's interest and traces down past his balls. He has to clamp his teeth on his lip hard enough to hurt in order to contain a loud groan. The gap in the panties extends back there, too.

He opens his mouth to say _Bill_ and _yes_ and _fuck, really?_ because they don't often do it on the tour bus. Bill likes to be loud and even if they' no longer have their bandmates to think of, there's still...

Bill taps a slender finger against Tom's lips.

Tom nods. They have to be quiet when they're on the bus. Even though they're on their own, there is still the driver to be aware of and there's only so often they can use bad dreams and drunk karaoke for alibis.

He turns his head and there's a familiar tube laying beside the pillow; Bill came prepared. Tom reaches for the lube and begins to coat his fingers but a hand closes over his, pushing Tom's hand down to his own cock. Tom opens his mouth to protest. He hurts his brother enough with what they do, he thinks, despite the fact that Bill is constantly assuring him otherwise. He won't hurt Bill this way.

Bill shakes his head vigorously as Tom reaches lube-coated fingers for him. Bill's shower-damp strands of black hair cut across his face like dark scars with the vehemence of his denial. He gives Tom a sultry look that lowers from Tom's eyes down to his groin, where track pants have been tugged down far enough to expose the avidity of the flesh.

After dwelling his gaze there, tongue easing back and forth over his bottom lip, Bill arches a brow and hitches himself up a bit until they're pressed together in an intimate sort of kiss below. When he scoots up, Tom can see the way the shadows caress his thighs, eager as Tom is to lay hands on any part of Bill. Bill positions himself and bites his lip, expectant.

 _Now,_ his little gestures couldn't be any more clear. The lube is for Tom, not Bill.

Tom's mouth opens in a wordless 'O' and he nods, closing his lubricant-coated fingers over himself and getting it good and slick. He squeezes more lube from the bottle directly onto his hard, raging flesh and a quiet click, half a broken gasp, leaves his throat as he strokes his hardness until it's well coated. Bill nods approval and leans forward, pressing his palms against Tom's chest as he rises up in readiness.

They're both panting softly, and Bill's biting his lip in a mirror of Tom's attempt to throttle his own instinct to groan at the near-distressing tightness that sheathes his ache as Bill sinks down onto him with barely a pause.

A pause, perhaps a full half-minute of stillness. Trembling breath breaches the air. A tremor courses through Tom's palms that he believes for a second to be Bill's until he recognizes the shiver as his own.

Bill gazes at him through heavy-lidded eyes and waits. It's a game, who will bend first under the gathering pleasure. Like meeting Bill's eyes, Tom tries to hold his breath but there are only so many laden heartbeats of exquisite torment he can take before bowing under the load, his back arching, stomach and buttocks going taut as he pushes up into Bill's beloved heat. His fingers dig into Bill's hips and he has to gasp when he wants to moan, bite his lips over the name that rises, give in to the urge to thrust when he wants to hold on, wait, draw it out...

Instigating his own movement in turn, Bill is the fulcrum to Tom's force. Soft panting exhalations escape tense control as he rides Tom, hands braced and fingernails scratching against his chest as he leans forward, mouth pursed and sweat gathering while Tom strives harder into their connection. He is the pull to Tom's push, the yin to his yang, the take to Tom's give and always more, more for both of them, ouroborous entangled and never-ending.

When Bill sits up the change drives them together in vital ways. Bill's eyes are wide, his mouth stretching open; what Tom could mistake for shock if he weren't coursing high on the same thrill, the same triumphal surge in his blood. They go faster and the road fades beneath them, awareness defined in the shadowy contours of Bill's face and the pale luster of sweaty thighs astride him, the clench and release where they're joined, the ragged cadence of Bill's arousal-staggered breath and the sweet lick of minty-fresh tongue as Bill leans down for a brief taunt of a kiss.

He moves, rocking, rocking, gathering momentum undeniable as impending dawn and Tom wraps a hand around proud-upstanding velvet and slick tension, plying a grip more coaxing than urgent. Words are useless in the place where Bill's need is etched in his marrow, permeating his senses and gathering awareness to more, soft, yes, _touch._

Forever could never be too much as they hitch faster together in this one perfect act, more sacred than sin. The heavy threads of pleasure draw tight and snap all too soon. Tom tongues at his lip and watches, eyes open, wanting, fixed on Bill above him as the tautly-stretched coil of need, of this physical love, of togetherness more intrinsic than lust or compulsion is pushed to the keenest point and unravels at last. Too used to restraint, he bites his lip and stiffens without a sound. Release is only disappointment in that it leaves him wanting more.

His hand is more than coaxing on Bill now. It's firm, commanding, challenging. Bill's face is drawn but transported, scintillating in the intermittent slaps of light that steal through the curtains to illuminate him. His stirring breath is no more than rapid huffs so low they border sub-vocal, rushing in Tom's ears like the frantic swoop of blood through his temples, his throat, the thin skin where Tom's hand caresses.

Bill pushes up and his eyes flutter. He collapses across Tom's chest with a sudden totality even as he grips Tom like flexible steel where he's seated. His hips undulate still, frantically seeking, and Tom smooths his hands down Bill's naked back, skimming down sheened skin until he cups the tight swells of panty-sheathed rear and gathers Bill to him. If Tom could give Bill more of himself than he's already got, he'd deliver it gladly now.

Bill bites his chin and warbles a single breathy note of ecstasy as he comes. He shares what they've made between them, sealing every unspoken promise with each pulse of satisfaction over belly, stomach and ribs.

Spreading the heavy warmth of sated kisses over Tom's upturned face, Bill slumps into the crook of his arm. They kiss until their lips make the motions only, twitching without meeting. A sleepy sigh unspools from Bill's lungs.

Tom tucks Bill against his side and grins, petting Bill as they come down from their high, breath slowing, heartbeats resuming a pace less urgent. Sometimes they do so much better without words.

“Not so boring now, am I?” It's the first thing Tom has said in near an hour and his voice is a dry rasp.

Bill replies, “We'll see how you do tomorrow, stud.”

Tom wants to cry. This is the problem with giving in to Bill's sexual demands on the road – do it once and he expects a repeat performance. “What happened to all the times when the only thing you wanted to do was cuddle?”

Bill snorts and pokes him in the ribs. “That was before we started having sex, jackass,” he proclaims. “This is the consequence of being my sole sexual outlet, remember?”

Before Tom can summon up a suitably smart-ass response, a cold, wet nose shoves against his hip, bare where his pants were pushed down, nosing with unerring aim down past his pants and finding bare skin below. A flat tongue curls around his ankle, licking sweat from his skin. He yelps.

“Nova! Go lie down!” Tom orders.

The pointer responds by shifting to Tom's foot and licking at his toes as though they're the tastiest treat on offer. “Nova, go lie down,” Tom repeats, less hopeful he will be obeyed this time.

"You're all sweaty now," Bill says, safe from their dog’s attentions between Tom and the wall. "Get up and play with him or he'll keep licking."

Tom groans. "He's going to want to run up and down the bus and do stuff, maybe for hours..."

"It's hard being Tom," Bill says. "A sweet loving dog and an awesome job that lets you see the world and a devoted twin and a fabulous lover..."

"Most people don't conflate the two," Tom mutters, but he's tucking himself in, pulling his pants up, grabbing the shirt slung by the bed and using it to swipe at his front, promising himself a good shower after all the clothes go in the hamper.

Bill's cackle is unsympathetic as Tom rises to pay attention to their dog.

"Hey," Tom says, and pauses, rumpling their pointer's head as he looks over his shoulder. He looks at Bill, but he doesn't say it.

Bill grins back at him, chin dipping in a slight nod. He doesn't say it, either.

They rarely have to.


End file.
